The night was going so well. I blasted my legs, they were all rubbery, telling me I broke them down well enough. Got back here to cousin's, feeling good, sucking down water unlike recent days. Working on "vids" in order to upload the definitive recording of a major work.
Then this. I am still in shock. He is gone. The man who saved my life. The man who broke into the bathroom and ripped the blade out of my hand before I could notch another mark. The man who swore to me that he would flat-out kick my ass if I didn't anything like that again. The man who made it a point to come by daily to make sure I hadn't done something stupid. The man who swore to my mother that he would be damned if I would ever hurt myself again. And right he was, as most of those scars have healed nearly to invisibility, as it has been over seven years since that night. He became a great friend and drinkin' buddy, telling the craziest stories from the desert.
Gone. In the blink of an eye. I...don't know. Did I ever thank him enough for what he did? Did he know what he meant to my mother? Did he feel any pain? Will we ever know what happened?
Good night, my friend, keep the bar open and a stool ready, and I'll bring my ears and the beers. I love you, man.
In all things there is good and bad, which side presents itself is how you look at it. I choose good, often to my detriment.
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